Sleight of Hand
by Layla Reyne
Summary: A mysterious true love finds Damon Salvatore when and where he least expects it this holiday season. AU/H; One-shot for LJ A2A Delena Holiday Exchange.


**Sleight of Hand**

**By: Layla Reyne**

**Summary: **A mysterious true love finds Damon Salvatore when and where he least expects it this holiday season. AU/H; One-shot for LJ A2A Delena Holiday Exchange Prompt.

**A/N: **In answer to LJ A2A Delena Holiday Exchange Prompt from Morgan (aka morvamp):

_At a Christmas party Damon is forced by his drunk friends to step into the 'mystical elfs' back room (aka fortune teller, or witch, whatever). Inside of her snow globe reveals his true love. For years Damon thought it was a hoax, a big joke, until he spots her. The girl within the globe. His supposed true love._

Tweaked the prompt a bit with Morgan's permission. **BIG THANKS **to Sandra (dutchtreat) for her beta work and to Chelley (chellethebelle) for pre-reading. All of these wonderful ladies are contributing #DEHX3 stories this year. Please read and share the love!

**Disclaimer: The original story is mine. The characters and other things from The Vampire Diaries are not. All due credit to the rightful holders.**

* * *

Damon Salvatore considered the packed bar, looking for a spot to sneak in.

Woodside Tavern had become his go-to place for an after-work drink since he'd moved to the Bay Area. The food was outstanding and the décor was elegant, befitting of its Michelin star rating. There was a dark, ornately carved, wood bar with shelves of liquor stacked on a mirrored wall at one end, a private dining room at the other, and an open dining area in between filled with white linen covered tables and plush burgundy velvet chairs. But for as rich as the Tavern appeared – and while there was always the humming undercurrent of Silicon Valley power owing to its location and clientele – it still managed to feel like a laidback neighborhood bar.

Tonight, however, was no ordinary night at Woodside Tavern.

The tables and chairs were pushed to the outside walls, set up as stations with hors d'oeuvres and paired wines, the doors at either end of the private dining room were open with a line of costumed patrons waiting to get inside, and more disguised revelers were spilling into the main dining area and around the bar.

As much as he loved the place, Damon would usually stay far away from such a scene. Not his idea of fun (even if it was also his birthday, a fact he kept closely guarded), and he sure as hell wouldn't be there dressed in Victorian-era gentlemen's garb, complete with a puffy white shirt, splashed with red food coloring, a cape and fake fangs. But a bet was a bet, and he'd been on the losing end of this one. Obviously. At least there was good whiskey in it for him, if he could just get to the fucking bar.

When a pirate and wench eventually moved out of the way, Hurricanes in hand, Damon slid in, holding up two fingers to Ric, signaling for a double. Being the good proprietor that he was, Ric had learned quickly that bourbon was his drink of choice, knew his favorite distillers and ordering had become a mere formality. It was only a matter of what was in stock and whether he wanted a single or double.

Tonight, however, Ric took one look at him and grinned wickedly. "I have a better idea."

"I don't like the sound of that," Damon slurred around the fake fangs. Growling in frustration, he popped them out and shoved them in his pocket, as the other man began dumping ingredients into a silver shaker.

"Why aren't you dressed up?" Damon asked accusingly, noting that while the rest of the Tavern staff were costumed, Ric was wearing his everyday faded jeans and a wrinkled, drab green, button-up shirt, with a bar towel slung over each shoulder.

"I'm the owner of this joint. I don't have to dress up," Ric shrugged, as he held the shaker aloft and gave it a couple of quick pumps. Opening the top, he poured the blood red mixture into a highball glass, added a stalk of celery and set it on the bar in front of him, smiling proudly. "Here you go, _Count_."

"Bloody Mary," Damon grimaced, rolling his eyes. "Very funny."

"I thought so," Ric chuckled. "Almost as funny as you in that ridiculous outfit. Didn't figure you for the Halloween costume party type."

"Lost a bet," Damon admitted, taking a swallow of the spicy tomato concoction.

"Figured it was that or the latest flavor of the month talked you into it. Where is Sage anyways?" Ric asked, the name sounding like a question in and of itself.

"Rebekah," Damon corrected, before going on to explain his solo arrival. "On a flight home to the London office, hopefully never to be seen again."

"How long are you going to keep this revolving door of women going, Damon?" Ric replied, crossing his arms over his chest and glaring at him. "It's been almost three years, and you, yourself, once told me you're not that kind of guy."

Damon cringed at the memory of last New Year's Eve, when he'd been driven to the Tavern by loneliness, a hankering for good bourbon and an onslaught of painful memories triggered by a wedding invitation of all things. A bottle from Ric's secret stash later, and Damon had spilled the whole sordid tale behind his move from Boston to California.

Two years prior, he'd come home early from an overseas business trip, hoping to surprise his fiancée, Katherine, for New Year's Eve. Instead, he'd been the one surprised, finding her naked, in their bed, with his brother, Stefan. The next workday, Damon had requested a transfer out of the Boston office, it was approved a week later and he'd packed and moved cross-country by the end of the month.

Stefan and Katherine were married this past summer, but he hadn't attended. In fact, he hadn't spoken to any of his family since he'd left the East Coast, needing a clean break seeing as Stefan could do no wrong in his father's eyes and Katherine had charmed his old man and been welcomed into the family all the same. Damon had sworn off the whole lot of them. And he'd sworn off women too, or at least any serious relationship with one, after having wasted five years of his life on Katherine.

"Not going back there, Ric. Not anytime soon."

"Not even if Madame Bennett says it's meant to be..."

"Madame who?"

"Dude, did you finally get a witch this year?!" an excited voice came from behind Damon.

Turning on his stool, Damon saw his friend and colleague, Mason Lockwood, and Mason's nephew, Tyler, approaching the bar, both wearing cut-off faded jeans and ripped white t-shirts and carrying werewolf masks in their hands. Mason smiled widely as they shuffled up to the bar.

"I've been telling Ric for years that he needs to add a witch to this shindig. Palm-reading and shit like that."

Ric nodded toward the private dining area. "Finally took your advice."

"That line is for a palm reader?" Damon scoffed, skeptically eyeing the growing line into the back room.

"Two actually. One of them also has a magic ball," Ric smirked, before taking Mason and Tyler's drink orders.

With Ric busy mixing their drinks, Damon turned fully to Mason, seeing the wheels already spinning in his friend's head. "No fucking way."

"Why the hell not?" Mason responded, punching his shoulder. "It's Halloween. Live a little."

"Who knows, man," Tyler chimed in, as Ric handed them their drinks. "Maybe she can give you stock tips or something."

"I'm a senior analyst for one of the world's foremost business consulting firms," Damon replied dryly, looking down his nose at Tyler. "I don't need some witch to tell me what I already know."

"Okay, bad example," Tyler conceded, before taking a long draught of some Irish whiskey and herb mixed-drink that Ric was calling 'Wolfsbane' for the evening. "Ladies, then."

"Only digging that hole deeper," Mason interrupted, saving Damon the breath and Tyler a beating, if he'd kept going. "Look," he went on, holding two hands out between them, playing the peacekeeper. "Let's just have a few drinks and see where the evening takes us."

"Fine," Damon sniped, downing the rest of his Bloody Mary in one gulp and slamming the empty glass on the bar to get Ric's attention. "A real drink this time. And make it a double."

"How about I make you a deal instead," Ric proposed, replacing the highball glass with a tumbler. "If you give those witches a minute of your time, I might be persuaded to break into the secret stash again."

Damon narrowed his eyes. "That's not playing fair."

Ric grinned tauntingly, as he tagged the round bottle of Blanton's from a middle shelf and poured two fingers worth into his glass. "You start with this for now, and just consider how much better the other will taste."

"Asshole," Damon mumbled under his breath, bringing the glass of decent but not the best bourbon to his lips.

"Dick," Ric fired over his shoulder, as he turned on his heel and headed toward the other end of the bar.

"Before the night is over," Tyler said, holding out his hand to Mason.

Damon scowled, more than a little offended that his friends were placing bets on his ability to resist the call of rare, top shelf bourbon.

"One hour," Mason countered, shaking on the bet.

"So little faith," Damon sighed, even though he knew Mason was probably going to win this one.

* * *

Ninety minutes and three glasses of bourbon later, Damon slid into the chair across from an attractive younger woman, mid-twenties he'd guess, with light brown skin, green eyes and curly brown hair.

"Well, well, well," he drawled, setting his fourth glass aside and giving the woman his best smile. "You certainly don't look like any witch I've ever seen."

"Is that right?" she replied, cocking a perfectly manicured brow and crossing her arms over her chest. "You've known a lot of witches, have you?"

"Only those I've seen on TV," Damon smirked, leaning forward on his elbows and beckoning her closer with a crooked finger. When she was nose to nose with him over the crystal ball in the center of the table, he whispered conspiratorially, "Most of them look like the old hag over there."

His eyes cut to the older African-American lady with wrinkled skin and short curly black hair sitting across the room at a table covered in tarot cards, before coming back to the green ones now flashing dangerously in front of him. His whiskey soaked brain failed to heed the warning, as he flirtatiously plowed ahead.

"You, on the other hand, are a witch I'd definitely like to know better."

"Gotta say, Casanova, you're not off to a good start."

"How's that?" he asked, taken slightly aback by her sudden caustic tone.

"That 'old hag' over there," she said, jutting her thumb at the other witch. "She's my grams."

Sagging into his chair, Damon covered his face with his hands. "I should have known," he groaned behind his fingers.

"Not too bright, are you?"

"Blame it on the bourbon," he claimed with a nod to his glass. "Let's try this again," he said, offering his hand. "I'm Damon, your grandmother is lovely, and you are by far the most beautiful witch I've ever seen."

"Bonnie," she introduced herself, taking his hand and tensing for a moment, her brow furrowing, before it smoothed out and she continued. "But your efforts are wasted," she said, holding up her other hand and wiggling her fingers. The fourth one was adorned with a sparkling solitaire diamond and a silver wedding band. "Oh-for-two, birthday boy. I think I'll be having this one," she chuckled, picking up his glass and downing the measure in a single gulp.

"Of course," Damon grumbled, shaking his head. "The good ones are always taken."

"So are you," she replied, setting the empty glass down and tilting her head, pinning him with a serious gaze. "You just don't know it yet."

"What's that supposed to mean?" he asked, leaning forward again. Normally, he wouldn't buy this hocus pocus shit for a minute, but he hadn't missed that she'd called him 'birthday boy,' a fact that Ric didn't even know, and something about the way she looked at him, about her resolute tone, intrigued him.

"Your true love," she answered. "You'll meet her soon, and it'll be just the beginning."

"And how will I know her?"

"You'll know," Bonnie smirked. "But, seeing as you're not the sharpest tool in the shed, I'll give you a few hints. Medium height, leggy with curves, long brown hair, olive skin, big brown doe eyes."

Damon's heart sank. Clearly, the witch had gotten her past and future signals crossed. "Think you better recheck that crystal ball of yours. You just described my ex."

"Crystal ball is just for show," Bonnie told him, waving her hand dismissively. "And I'm not talking about your ex," she added confidently, not seeming the least bit phased by what he'd said.

Digging into his back pocket, Damon removed his wallet, rifled through the bills, and pulled out a picture he couldn't bear to part with, yet hated himself for still carrying around. It was from their engagement party – him, with his arm around a beaming Katherine, Stefan on her other side (probably already sleeping with her) and his father at the other end.

He slid the picture across the table. "You still convinced?"

Bonnie glanced down at the picture and then back up at him. "So, you have a type," she shrugged. "The woman I spoke of, she's not this woman. This one," she said, tapping the picture with her nail. "Her eyes are cold, calculating, even as she smiles. The eyes you'll see soon are warm, compassionate, spirited. You'll recognize the difference," she finished, pushing the picture back across the table to him.

Damon was quiet, contemplating the witch's words, as he folded up the well-creased picture and tucked it away in his wallet. Had Bonnie not just described Katherine to a tee, he would have blown the whole thing off, figuring that maybe Ric had filled her in ahead of time. But her certainty, and the way she'd tensed when she'd first touched his hand, had him unbelievably believing that maybe she was for real.

"Trust me," Bonnie whispered, gently laying a hand on top of his on the table.

A little flare of hope began flickering somewhere in the vicinity of Damon's heart for the first time in years. He looked up, fighting a grin, only to lose the battle when he saw Bonnie smirking full on.

"And for the love of God, try not to be so oblivious when fate comes calling. Maybe cut back on the whiskey a bit."

"Oh, that reminds me," Damon jolted, moving to stand. "I have a glass of Ric's best waiting for me. I can probably swing one for you too. An apology for my earlier behavior."

"My family's in the restaurant business," she replied, standing across from him. "I'm covered."

Glancing down at the ring on her finger, Damon smiled. "Whoever he is, he's a lucky man."

"I know," Bonnie winked. "Now, off with you," she said, shooing him away after a quick look to the door where Tyler was impatiently waiting. "I have to tell your friend over there that he'll never be leader of the pack at the office and his boss knocked up his pseudo-girlfriend."

"You got all that just from looking at him?"

"Brushed by him on the way to the bathroom earlier," she answered, wiggling her fingers again. "Maybe you should offer _him_ that glass of bourbon."

"Sounds like he's gonna need it," Damon chuckled. "It was a pleasure meeting you, Bonnie Bennett."

"Gilbert," she amended, with a smile. "Be seeing you, Damon."

"I hope so," he grinned, waving goodbye as he exited the room.

His smile only grew wider when he got to the bar and found a glass of Pappy waiting for him. Maybe things were finally starting to turn his way.

* * *

"John, this is Damon Salvatore from the Palo Alto office. I apologize if I'm interrupting your Christmas Eve, but I thought you'd want to know the Queen deal is officially closed. All wires are confirmed received, stock certificates have been issued, and the new company will go live on the twenty-sixth. If you have any follow up questions, please don't hesitate to call or email. I'll be back in the office on Thursday. Thanks."

Finishing the voicemail he was leaving for the New York partner in charge of the Queen account, Damon pressed 'End Call' and slumped into the leather seat of his vintage Camaro, releasing the breath he'd been holding for the past two months.

It had been the deal from hell, kicking off the morning after Halloween. At the time, he'd been hung over and more interested in a yet to be seen brunette than financial projections. He'd had to shake off those distractions and focus, fast, as they'd raced full speed ahead toward a Thanksgiving closing. Then, it slipped to the first week of December. Then to today, Christmas Eve, when the office was short staffed and those that were there didn't want to be. Damon didn't care; he didn't have anywhere else to be. He preferred to be busy during the holidays, and there was a promotion on the line for him, but he had felt bad for holding up those that did have somewhere to go.

But the deal was closed. Over. Finally. Thank the fucking Lord.

And thank God the Tavern was still open, though he felt guilty about showing up a half hour before closing time on Christmas Eve. He was sure to go directly to the top of Ric's shit list for this, but if there was ever a night he needed a drink, this was it.

Opening his car door, he climbed out, tossing his suit jacket in the passenger seat and rolling up his dress sleeves as he walked across the mostly deserted parking lot.

"I was beginning to think you were going to sit out there all night," a woman's voice called to him as he walked through the front door.

Looking up, Damon stopped dead in his tracks. "Katherine," he gasped.

It had been three years since he'd seen her, and the last place he expected to run into her now was here, all the way across the country, behind the bar of his favorite restaurant, dressed in a dark red ruched halter dress with her long brown hair styled straight. His first instinct was to turn and walk right out the way he'd come in, but something in the back of his mind stopped him, long enough for her to reply.

"No, I'm Elena," she said, smiling softly at him with a warmth that reached all the way to her eyes. A difference he recognized immediately, that convinced him this woman was not Katherine.

That's when the unknown something registered for Damon. A prediction made two months earlier. One that he'd barely given another thought to during the ensuing chaos at work. Hope filled his chest, causing his heart to beat faster and blood to whoosh in his ears, as his feet carried him the remaining few steps to the otherwise empty bar.

"I'm sorry," he said, shaking his head and struggling for words. "You just really reminded me of someone for a moment. I'm Damon," he said, offering his hand.

When she placed her smaller one in his, the shock to his system was intense, electrifying. Damon's eyes shot down to their joined hands before darting back up to hers, finding a curiosity and heat in her brown ones that was surely mirrored in his own. He swiped his thumb across her knuckles and watched a shiver steal through her, goose bumps prickling her bare arms.

"Not to be rude or anything, Damon," she covered in a teasing, flirtatious tone. "But if you want me to pour you a drink, you're going to have to let go of my hand."

Doing the exact opposite, he used their clasped hands to pull her closer, meeting her halfway across the bar, a scant distance of space between them. "You wouldn't happen to know where Ric keeps the good stuff, would you?"

"He warned me about you," she laughed, her sweet breath floating over his lips. "And sadly, no, I've only been here a couple of weeks."

"I haven't seen you before."

"I usually work the day shift. I'm covering for Ric tonight."

"That's nice of you."

"Least I can do. Now, how about that drink?" she asked, squeezing his fingers, which had somehow become entwined with hers during their banter.

Impulsively, he reached out his other hand to brush a stray lock of hair behind her ear. Her breath caught and a delicious blush crept up her neck and flooded her cheeks, making his mouth water – and not for bourbon. When her tongue snuck out to wet her lips, he had to bite his own to stop from groaning aloud. Leaning further over the bar, he brought his lips to her ear and asked, his voice rough with need, "When do you get off?"

"In about an hour, after closing," she answered huskily, turning her face into him and lightly scraping her cheek across his own.

"Scotch then," he rasped, slowly drawing away, savoring the warmth of her skin and the smell of her perfume, before he settled back on his stool. "It'll take me longer to drink."

"Which one?" she asked, her fiery gaze locked with his, even as she withdrew her hand.

"Whichever one you want to taste in about an hour," he smirked, earning another rush of blood to her cheeks that sent his own careening south.

"I know just the one," she grinned, using her foot to push the step stool over to the Scotch collection. She climbed up three steps to the top shelf, giving him a tantalizing view of her long legs, bared from her mid-thigh hem to the black, strappy high-heeled sandals on her feet. She came down off of the ladder with a Scotch snifter and a bottle of Arran Single-Malt. "I like the sweetness of the Sauternes finish," she told him, her dark eyes peeking up at him from beneath her lashes, as she poured him a measure.

"Good to know," Damon bit out hoarsely, jaw clenched, as he desperately tried to keep himself in check. It was all he could do not to launch across the bar and take her right then and there. Whether it was the deal burnout from work, the promise of Bonnie's Halloween prediction, or the fact that Elena was the most beautiful creature he'd ever seen, he couldn't say. All he knew, in that instant, was that he'd never wanted a woman more than he wanted her.

And that it was going to be the longest fucking hour of his life.

* * *

He was right. Longest. Hour. Ever.

Sixty minutes of watching Elena move gracefully behind the bar and around the restaurant, taking care of the handful of remaining patrons, while he grew harder by the second.

Sipping his Scotch, he distracted himself by asking her questions whenever she had a down minute. He learned that she'd moved to California from Virginia to be closer to her brother and aunt. That she'd recently finished her MFA, wanted to be a writer and was applying for jobs with publishing companies in San Francisco. That she most fortunately was renting the apartment above the Tavern.

He told her a little about himself as well. That he'd relocated three years ago from Boston to Palo Alto, only saying he needed a change. That he wasn't close with his family back home. That he was a financial analyst and had just closed the biggest deal of his career. At that news, she gave him a cute little round of applause and promised champagne later.

Once the last patrons, servers and chefs finally left, they locked up the Tavern, grabbed a bottle of Bollinger and her discarded high heels, and made it as far as the bottom of the stairs leading to her apartment before Damon's control snapped. Pressing her back against the wall with his body, leaving no mystery as to his need for her, he curled a hand behind her neck and captured her mouth in a long, hard, wet kiss.

Elena's lips parted on a moan, and his tongue delved inside, taking the opportunity to taste, to feel, to tease. She melted into him, dropping her shoes and winding her arms around his neck, one hand clawing at his shoulders inside the collar of his shirt while the other threaded through his hair. Her tongue was busy too, tangling with his, swiping over his lips, tasting the Scotch that she'd selected for him, and smiling against his mouth with delight. Eventually, when the urgent grinding of their hips demanded they move inside, Damon handed off the bottle of champagne and bent slightly, slipping his hands under her ass and boosting her into his arms, her skirt riding up as her legs parted and swung around his waist, so that he could carry her up the stairs to her apartment.

Finding the door unlocked, Damon pushed them inside and fell against it, kissing Elena deeply. Letting her legs drop as his hands traveled up her back and into her hair, the friction of her body sliding down his pushed him perilously close to the edge. Thankfully, she stepped away as she turned on a lamp and set the bottle of champagne on an end table, allowing him a moment to regain at least a little control. But then she decimated it a second later, seizing the hem of her dress that had bunched at her waist and pulling it off over her head, revealing an emerald green lacey bra and matching panties underneath.

"Festive, aren't we?" he smirked, closing the distance between them, his lips coming back to hers as his hands roved the expanse of newly exposed skin. Skirting up her sides, he teased the undersides of her breasts and then palmed them fully, his thumbs swiping over her hardened nipples.

"It _is_ Christmas Eve," she smirked in return, right before tearing his dress shirt wide open, sending buttons pinging and rolling over the hardwood floors. "There's a Christmas tree in my bedroom, if you'd like to continue unwrapping this gift."

"Lead the way," he grinned, shrugging off the remains of his shirt and toeing off his dress shoes.

He lost his pants and boxers somewhere in the short hallway on the way to her bedroom. Her bra and panties went missing just inside the doorway, tossed beneath the small, lit Christmas tree in the corner of her room. Backing her up against the foot of the bed, she sank down onto the edge of the mattress as he dropped to his knees, burying his face between her legs and draping her knees over his shoulders, tasting the most intimate part of her. He kept at it, loving the sound of her breathy whimpers and moans as he licked, kissed and sucked, until her fingers clenched in his hair and she hauled him up onto the bed over her.

"Damon, please," she begged, her body writhing beneath his, hips thrusting and nails raking down his chest, making her intentions clear.

"Shit, condom," he cursed, pushing up to grab the packet from his wallet in his discarded pants.

Elena halted his movement, keeping him pressed to her body with one long leg slung over his thigh and a hand gripping his cock, stroking him firmly. "Pill," she breathed against his lips. "I need you, now," she demanded, positioning him at her entrance and lifting her hips. Feeling her heat and wetness against him, Damon was powerless to resist, letting his hips fall through and sinking inside her.

The perfection of the fit was stunning, causing Damon to still and stare down at Elena in wonder, only to find her gazing up at him with the same awe-struck expression. With the twinkling white lights of the Christmas tree casting an ethereal glow on her flawless skin and shining brightly in her molten brown eyes, Damon was sure he'd been converted. He was a believer – in love at first sight, witchy woo-woo, all of it. This woman was it for him. His true love.

Softly, Elena ran a hand along his jaw, her thumb caressing his cheek, before bringing her lips back to his for a slow, languid kiss that shot straight to his soul. When he felt the light scrape of her nails over his ass, reminding him to move, Damon began slowly gliding in and out, matching the movement of their tongues. But as their kisses grew more heated, more frantic, so did the movement of their bodies – fingers scratching and clawing, hips bucking and driving, voices shouting and grunting. Until finally, Damon felt her inner walls contract around him, her body tense and a long, strangled moan fall from her lips. With one more thrust, he planted himself deep inside her, buried his face in her neck and groaned out his own release, grabbing a hold of perfection and riding it out.

* * *

Blindly throwing out an arm, Damon aimed for the buzzing sound coming from somewhere to his right. On the third try, he silenced the insufferable noise and flopped back down onto the pillows. Inhaling deeply, he smiled at the scent he'd become intimately acquainted with on several occasions last night.

"Elena," he mumbled sleepily, stretching an arm out behind him, seeking her warmth.

When his hand met cold sheets, Damon's eyes shot open. Rolling onto his back, he knifed up at the waist, frantically glancing around the room. Elena's side of the bed was empty, the Christmas tree lights were off, sunlight was streaming in from the window, and his clothes from last night were neatly folded on the corner of the dresser across from the bed.

"Elena," he called again, louder this time.

More silence.

Rubbing a hand over his face, Damon scrunched his eyes closed and gave himself a good swift slap on the head, checking to see if maybe it was all just a dream. Peeking open a single eye, he was met with the same scene and a worse headache, confirming the celebratory bottle of champagne they'd downed between rounds two and three had been no figment of his imagination either.

When the alarm on the bedside clock went off again, he took notice of the time – 10:00AM – before turning it off for good. Seconds later, a text message came through on his phone, which had been placed on the table next to the clock. Picking it up, he saw that it was from Elena, who had apparently programmed her number into his phone. The message included a nearby address in Redwood City and a time – 11:00AM.

Slinging his legs over the side of the bed, Damon padded barefoot across the room, pulling on his pants and the remains of his dress shirt, held together by three surviving buttons. Pocketing his phone, he walked across the hallway to the bathroom, cleaned up and then surveyed Elena's apartment, searching for clues about the amazing woman whose bed he'd shared last night. There were no pictures on the walls, new, non-descript IKEA furniture in each room and boxes stacked in corners that he assumed held all of her personal belongings.

He was just checking out the ornaments on the Christmas tree in her bedroom, looking for something personal, when his phone dinged again, distracting him from his search. Pulling it out of his pocket, he saw a new message from Elena.

_Correction … Make that Noon. You coming?_

Damon stared at the message, contemplating the events of the past twelve or so hours. He'd been drifting for three years, maybe even longer. Until last night, when he'd felt anchored – a sense of home, of belonging – like he hadn't felt since his mother died twenty years ago. Not even with Katherine. No way in hell was he letting that slip through his fingers. He knew it this morning just as surely as he knew it last night. He was a believer.

Smiling, he tapped out his reply.

_See you soon._

* * *

At five past Noon, after a pit stop by his place to shower and change into dark wash jeans and a black button down shirt, and a trip to three different grocery stores until he found one that was open and had fresh cut flowers, Damon pulled the Camaro in front of a quaint, light blue house with white shutters on the windows and two white rocking chairs on the front porch. The house was mid-way down a picturesque tree-lined street filled with 1950s-style bungalows on large green lawns, and it appeared every one of them was fully decked out for Christmas.

Strolling up the walkway and onto the porch, his finger was hovering over the doorbell when the front door swung open, revealing two small children – a boy with freckles, blue eyes and sandy blonde hair and a girl with light brown skin, dark curly hair and familiar brown eyes.

"Sam, who's there?"

Looking up from the kids, Damon was surprised to see Bonnie walking toward them, wiping her hands on an apron. "Well, if it isn't Casanova himself," she grinned. "Told you I'd be seeing you again."

"Bonnie? What're you doing here?"

"Christmas Day with the family," she answered, holding the door open wider for him to enter. "This is my daughter, Piper," she said, placing her hand on the girl's shoulder. "And this is my little cousin, Sam," she continued, ruffling the boy's already unruly hair.

"That one is mine," a voice Damon knew well called out.

Glancing over Bonnie's shoulder, through the open living room to the dining area, Damon saw Ric sitting at a round, wooden table, beer in hand, across from another younger man with shaggy brown hair and the same brown eyes as Piper. Damon was sure he'd never seen the man before but he seemed strangely familiar.

"Yo, sis," the younger man hollered toward what Damon assumed was the kitchen. "Damon's here."

"What the hell is going on?" Damon asked, eyes darting back and forth between Ric and Bonnie, his mind reeling.

A sharp tug on his pants leg drew Damon's attention toward his shoes, where Piper was standing, staring up at him with wide eyes. "Who're the pretty flowers for?"

"They're for my friend, Elena. I thought she was supposed to be here."

Smiling brightly, Piper took off running toward the kitchen. "Auntie El, Auntie El," she shouted. "There's a man here with pretty flowers for you. Can I have one?"

_Auntie El?_

"Of course you can, sweetie," said the one voice Damon had been waiting to hear all morning.

Elena emerged from around the kitchen corner, Piper resting on her hip. Her eyes were warm and inviting as she approached him.

_The eyes._ That's why Piper's had looked so familiar. They were Elena's. And the man at the table ...

_Her brother._

"I'm glad you came," Elena said, laying a hand on his chest and sending a wave of heat coursing through his body.

"Elena, what's going on?"

"Christmas, with my family. Come on," she said, hooking her free arm through one of his. "Let me introduce you."

* * *

"Are you angry with me?"

Turning his head from the sky above, Damon watched as Elena draped her apron over a patio chair, toed off her shoes and walked barefoot across the backyard to the hammock where he was stretched out.

"I don't like being lied to. But the gluttonous amount of food and wine I just consumed are dulling the edges a bit."

"Aunt Jenna tends to go a little overboard at the holidays."

"A little," Damon scoffed, blowing his cheeks out and running a hand over his too full stomach.

Elena had barely finished introducing him to her brother and Bonnie's husband, Jeremy, when a frazzled blonde woman had begun bustling plates of food out of the kitchen and onto the table. She'd stopped to introduce herself as Jenna, Elena's aunt and Ric's wife, and welcome him to their home, before calling everyone to the table.

Damon had talked a little here and there, mostly when spoken to, but otherwise he'd been quiet during lunch, observing the sights and sounds of the boisterous family around him, and wondering why they were acting like it was perfectly normal for him to be there. Elena, he'd noticed, kept a watchful, worried eye on him from across the table. When she'd stood to help Ric clear the dinner plates and make way for dessert, she'd placed a hand on his shoulder, leaned down and whispered a "Thank you for being cool" and an "I promise to explain" in his ear. He'd looked up into her anxious eyes – the same ones that were staring down at him now – and nodded.

After dessert, as Elena was helping Bonnie put the kids down for a nap, and Jenna, Ric and Jeremy were camped out in the living room watching Scrooged, he'd slipped out the back door, needing a minute to himself and finding the hammock and unseasonably warm weather too hard to resist. By now, though, he was tired of running scenarios in his head – an occupational hazard – and was ready for those explanations Elena had promised.

"I'm sorry I lied to you," Elena started softly, eyes downcast and wringing her hands.

"I'm not angry, Elena. Just confused," he replied, reaching out a hand to grasp hers, stilling her nervous motion.

"Then scoot over," she said, biting her lip as she climbed into the hammock with him. Throwing an arm over his belly and a leg over his thigh, she rested her head on his chest and snuggled close.

Winding an arm around her waist, Damon forced himself to focus. No easy feat with her soft warm body tucked against his side, reminding him of their previous night's activities.

"My parents died in a car accident ten years ago, when I was sixteen."

All thoughts of last night vanished, instantly. Damon gasped, jerking his head back to look at her, but Elena kept her cheek pressed to his shirt, her fingers fiddling with a button.

"Jenna took us in, me and Jeremy. I pretended everything was okay, but it wasn't. Jeremy got into drugs, the wrong crowd at school. It wasn't good. Jenna, who was still in grad school then, was at her wits end, until a certain history teacher at our high school took an interest in him. He saved him."

"Some teacher," Damon commented.

Lifting her head, Elena rested her chin on his sternum, smiling wryly. "Some bartender."

"Ric?"

"The one and only," she chuckled, and Damon could see and hear the affection she had for her uncle. "Jenna liked him too, even though he busted her balls at their first parent-teacher conference."

"How'd they end up out here?"

"Ric had family in the area," she continued, placing her cheek back on his chest. "He inherited the Tavern when his uncle died five years ago. At the same time, Jeremy was applying for art schools, he and Bonnie had gotten together, and pregnant with Piper. So when he got into the SF Art Institute, they all moved out together. Fresh start and all that."

"Where were you in all this?" Damon asked, his hand trailing up and down her spine, offering comfort, as he grew increasingly worried for her part in this story.

Elena stiffened in his arms, her fingers curling into his shirt, confirming his suspicions. "Wrapping things up at home, selling the house, finishing my degree…"

"Elena," he whispered, her tense body telling him more than her words. He wrapped his arm around her shoulders, pulling her closer.

"I was okay for a while, busy with school, taking care of Jenna and Ric's wedding, Jeremy and Bonnie. But when everyone left, it was just me, alone with the memories. One night, the worst night, I went back to the bridge where my parents died. I didn't want to be alone anymore."

Feeling her breath hitch, Damon moved his hand to the back of her neck, squeezing gently. "We don't have to get into this right now," he spoke softly, lifting his other hand to her face, gently caressing her cheek. "Not on Christmas Day."

Shaking her head, Elena raised her eyes to him, and a lump formed in his throat at the tears he saw brimming there. "No, I do, Damon," she said, taking his hand in hers and holding it to his chest, right above his heart. "You need to know. You need to understand. You saved me."

"How?" Damon asked, furrowing his brow and gripping her hand tightly. He hadn't met Elena until yesterday. How could he have saved her?

"Bonnie was in town with Piper, to visit me and her family, when she had a vision."

This time, it was Damon's turn to tense. "Wait … She's a real witch? They exist?!"

Nodding, Elena pressed up and closer. "She found me at the bridge. Told me I wouldn't be lonely much longer. She described you, exactly. Your raven hair," she said, withdrawing her hand to run it through the hair that had fallen across his forehead. "Your clear blue eyes," she added, her fingers drifting down to circle his eyes. "Your smirk," she finished, smiling softly, as her hand trailed to the corner of his mouth, the one that always hitched up first.

"Elena," Damon breathed, nuzzling his face into her palm. She splayed her fingers out along his jaw, so soft and warm.

"I thought it was just Bonnie trying to convince me to move out here with everyone else. But then I told Jenna, she told Ric, and he thought it might be you. Bonnie confirmed it on Halloween, when she touched you. There was nothing keeping me in Virginia, so I finished up my MFA and took the plunge. The first night I was here, I hid in the kitchen, watching you at the bar, and I knew. And then last night, it was…"

She paused, seeming to struggle for words as a blush reddened her cheeks. Suddenly shy, she buried her face in his neck.

"I know it sounds crazy, Damon," she mumbled against his skin, sending a shudder through him. "But I needed something to hold onto, something to hope for."

"It's not crazy," Damon replied. "I felt it too. That same hope when Bonnie told me about you. Then last night, when you put your hand in mine, when we connected, when I slid inside you, I was sure." Fisting her hair around his hand, he gently tugged her head back, gazing into her warm, brown eyes. "It – _you_ – were perfect," he said, lightly touching his mouth to hers.

"I _am_ sorry I tricked you," she apologized again, pulling away slightly. "I'll make it up to you."

"You've already made it up to me. It's been years since I had a real Christmas, with family, laughter and decent food. Thank you for that."

"You're welcome," she chuckled, before planting both of her hands on his chest and crawling on top of him, her legs falling between his open ones as the hammock swung precariously. She leaned down to kiss him again, but he stopped her short, his hands combing back her hair and framing her face.

"But can you do one more thing for me?" he asked, thumbs stroking her cheeks, an idea forming in his head.

"What's that?" she asked, fingers lightly caressing his neck.

"Help me banish one of my demons."

"Whatever I can do to help," she said with a small smile.

"Are you working New Year's Eve?"

She shook her head, her smile growing wider.

"Good," he said, hands gliding through the ends of her hair and down her back. "Let me take you out. Begin making some new memories."

Bonnie had been right. Meeting Elena had been just the beginning. She'd given him a wonderful Christmas. He was hoping she could do the same for what had become his least favorite night of the year.

_Out with the cold, in with the warm._

"I'd love that, especially if there's champagne. And if it ends like Christmas Eve did," she winked, wriggling her hips against his, eliciting a groan from him that she silenced with her mouth.

There was no 'lightly' about this kiss. They were so wrapped up in each other – tongues tangled, hands teasing skin beneath each other's shirts, hips rocking against one another's – that they didn't even realize they had an audience. Not until a gruff voice cut through their haze.

"Hey," Ric shouted from the edge of the patio. "There are kids present. I had to close the blinds."

"Sorry, Ric," Elena giggled, turning bright red and hiding her face in his neck.

"You hurt her, no more good bourbon for you."

Damon slung his arm out, shooting Ric the middle finger, as he buried his face in Elena's hair, muffling his laughter.

"You know," he chuckled, "I think Ric's the one who's really been tricked here. No way in hell is his good bourbon going to last now."

"Oh, I forgot to tell you," Elena laughed, peeking her head out from under his chin, eyes dancing with mirth. "I found out where he keeps the secret stash hidden."

"_Definitely_ the best Christmas ever," Damon smirked, bringing her lips back to his, making sure Elena understood just how much he appreciated _everything_ she'd given him this holiday season.

**THE END**

* * *

_**Hope you all enjoyed this fluffy diversion. Reviews are the best-loved presents for any author, so share the love with all of this year's A2A participants. Thanks for reading and have a happy holiday!**_


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